


The Truth About Mycroft

by MoonRiver



Series: Adopted [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Confessions, M/M, Violence, implied threats of rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonRiver/pseuds/MoonRiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock was twenty and Mycroft was twenty-seven he thought his adopted brother simply did administrative work for the government...until he came home one night to find Mycroft being tortured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock shivered as he fought with the key to Mycroft’s flat. The news called it the coldest day of the year. He called it too damn cold to run five blocks from the tube to the central London home he shared with his adopted brother. He finally managed to push the door open and let out a sigh of relief as he rushed inside.

The flat was freezing.

It was always too bloody hot, and of course tonight it was freezing.

“Mycroft?” He called, wrapping his arms around himself.

Shit, it was colder inside than out.

There was no reply.

He flipped on the light and was surprised to see it wouldn’t work. The electricity was out, despite the fact it was on across the street.

“Mycroft?” He called again. When his brother didn’t answer he headed for the bathroom but made a wrong turn to Mycroft’s room- which was locked.

“You’ve got to be-"

His comment was cut off by a sharp blow to the head and a cloth smeared with chloroform against his face.

When his vision came into focus he was on the floor in Mycroft’s. He felt nauseated and dizzy, but his head was clear enough and the moonlight was bright enough that he could make out the form of his brother perched on the bed.

“Mycroft,” he moaned gently.

He tried to move his head and pain erupted through it. He closed his eyes briefly to let the dizziness subside. When he opened them again his vision was a bit clearer, and he could see that Mycroft wasn’t laying on the bed but tied to it. His shirt was ripped in different places, revealing scars from knives. The bed was drenched with water, and so was his brother. Bruises coated the skin beneath both eyes. Blood flowed freely from a cut on his forehead.

Panicking, he tried to jump up but was bound by rope and what felt like a kitchen chair.

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond but it fell closed, cut off by his bloodied lip and broken body. Even his right eye was nearly swollen shut. Instead of speaking Mycroft leaned back against the pillows, defeated.

A new voice began talking rapidly, in a language he didn’t understand. His heart leapedat the sudden noise and panic sped through him. An Asian man stepped in front of him, addressing his brother and ignoring him. The man was older, maybe sixty, and he seemed neither unconcerned with the physical state of Mycroft, the kid tied to the chair, or the fact that the air had been turned on during the coldest night of the year.

At the thought of the air he shivered, and in response a bucket of water was thrown in his face. Ice drizzled down his shirt and some slipped down his back, his chest, and he yelped. The water was so cold it was painful, and the sudden hand yanking his wet hair didn’t help. He gasped but refused to cry out.

The man behind him began speaking to Mycroft again, and as he listened closely he realized he was asking questions. He tried to make out the language and the closest he could decide on was a dialect of Chinese, judging by some conversations overheard by international classmates.

His eyes desperately followed the man as he paced the floor. His knuckles were bloodied but his shirt sleeves were still tugged back, ready for more hits.

At last, Mycroft answered back.

In Chinese.

The Chinese man looked to someone who must have been standing behind his chair, and the hand covering his mouth slipped away. He gasped, grateful for air, but he didn’t have long to soak in the relief.

A fist flew across his face with such a powerful force that the chair tilted over and then back. His head snapped to the side and he cried out on instinct. Blood rushed from his nose and his vision went in and out of focus again.

Mycroft screamed in Chinese and the man hit him again. Sherlock gasped and shivered; between the blood, the water, and the cold his body felt like stone.

The man shouted something at Mycroft that sounded like a demand, and when his brother simply spat out blood he was punished with another punch to the face. Mycroft didn’t flinch. Instead he snapped at the man in Chinese.

His brother’s attacker made to leap on top of him, but a male voice behind his chair cried out to him. Instead his chair was kicked to the ground. He went with it, his arm landing painfully beneath him. His head crashed into the floorboards and he saw stars. Hands untangled him from the chair, but before he could move someone was on his back, practically sitting between his lower back and arse. Someone shouted something at Mycroft and a knee dug into his own shin, pinning him down.

Then Mycroft choked out a reply and it all stopped. The body on top of him shifted, the screaming Chinese man went quiet, and feet scurried from the room. A door slammed and Sherlock began shaking.

All he could think about was what the man on top of him had planned to do. He was wheezing, his chest was too tight… _panic attack_. His body felt like lead as he finally picked himself up, but he was shaking so badly he could hardly walk over to the bed.

Mycroft watched him through his bruised eyes as he nearly collapsed on top of the mattress. Wordlessly, he untied his brother. His arms fell limply to his sides when they were free, and Mycroft simply tilted his head back and mumbled:

“Thank you.”

Up close, Mycroft looked even worse. His entire face was swollen; dried blood mixed with oozing fresh blood on his neck. When he put together the man pinning him to the floor and the fact that Mycroft lay on his bed in practically just his boxer shorts his eyes lit up with panic.

“Did they-?”

“No.”

Their eyes met, and Mycroft’s breathing was rapid and painful.

“Were they going to?”

“I don’t know.”

Mycroft sounded like he wanted to cry.

He wasn’t sure he had ever seen his brother cry.

Trembling, he held a hand to his brother’s chest and felt how fast his heart was beating.

“You should go to the A&E,” Sherlock whispered. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“You can’t,” Mycroft choked.

Closing his eyes, Mycroft allowed the first few tears to fall. Sherlock stared at him, giving his brother that single moment to finally break down.

“You can’t call anyone,” Mycroft said. “Just let me rest, let me think.”

“I’ll get you some water then.”

A light was on outside the door, signaling the intruders had turned the lights back on. If only he could figure out the heat…

“No!” Mycroft hissed. He jumped up and then fell back, reminded of his injuries. His brother’s bloody, trembling, hand slipped into his, and Sherlock’s stomach knotted when his hand was squeezed. “Just stay for a bit, okay?”                               

Sherlock nodded, trying to hide how terrified he was.

“Are you alright?” His brother asked, raising a hand to his face. He winced as a finger dragged across the cut, and Mycroft reached for a tissue to dab the blood away. “God, you’re shaking.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah,” Mycroft sighed, turning away.

The flat seemed oddly silent without their intruders. The neighbors were quiet, there was no music, no telly.

“How long were they here?” Sherlock asked, uncertain if he really wanted to know.

“For hours.”

Choking back another sigh, Mycroft threw a hand over his face and tilted his head back.

“I thought it wouldn’t end,” Mycroft whispered.

His eyes were wide and foreign. Sherlock stared at him, feeling like a stranger in their own flat.

“I’m going to have to call my supervisor,” his brother said, looking to him. He looked him straight in the eye, begging for his trust. “They’re going to need to talk to you, you’re a witness. I’m not sure what’s going to happen after that, and if anything does…I’m sorry.”

The confession did nothing for his panic. His eyes darted around, wishing that someone would magically appear to help him.

But no one did.

They never did.

“What are you talking about?” He demanded.

“My work, Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaimed. “I…I’m not just an administrative assistant, alright? That’s the best I can tell you right now.”

“You speak Chinese.”

“Yeah, I do,” Mycroft said. He drew in a deep breath and sat up. Blinking rapidly, Mycroft drew in a few deep breaths, as though testing his own strength. “Along with Japanese and German, and I’m learning Korean. God I shouldn’t have told you that…”

“I won’t tell.”

“Don’t,” Mycroft said, his eyes dashing back toward him. Sherlock breathed heavily. The confusion of _what the fuck is going on_ was almost more overwhelming than the pain coursing through his head. “You can’t tell anyone anything just…go into the bathroom, alright? Get something for the bleeding but don’t shower. Don’t change clothes. We’ve got to keep everything exactly as it is. Us, the flat…”

His hands suddenly fumbled in the bedside table. Beneath condoms, lube, and a journal lay a cordless phone Sherlock had never seen before. Mycroft pressed the first button, triggering a speed dial.

Someone picked up, and Mycroft answered in Chinese. They spoke for only a few seconds, but it seemed long enough to get the message across. Tears blinked in his brother’s eyes as he hung up the phone and threw it back into the drawer.

“Shit,” Mycroft whispered, throwing an arm over his face again.

His brother winced in pain and let out a soft groan, as though he was finally letting himself be confronted with the fact that he was hurt very badly.

“Can you help me up?” He asked.

Without replying Sherlock wrapped an arm around his brother’s waist to help him sit up. Mycroft grunted as he straightened up, and for a moment they simply sat on the edge of the bed, panting.

“This night’s gone to shit, and I’ve probably lost my job,” Mycroft said, sighing again. “Whatever happens after this, I’m sorry.”

Someone pounded at the door, but even as his heart leapt, his eyes lighting up with fear, Mycroft’s face hardened. He was shocked when Mycroft leaned in and offered him a soft kiss to the lips.

“Stay here,” Mycroft instructed.

Sherlock stayed there, perfectly still, on the edge of the bed and waited for the explanations that would change his life forever.


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you okay?”

His brother’s voice was so small that he almost didn’t hear it. Sherlock looked up from the bathroom mirror, where his reflection gazed back at him rather helplessly. His eyes was black, there were cuts on his face, and his arse felt sore ever since the incident but he convinced himself he was imagining that. He kept getting the feeling like something was crawling on his skin so he rubbed his hands furiously up and down his arms, only to find nothing.

At last he turned to Mycroft and just stared.

Mycroft himself sported two black eyes and bandaging around his ribs. His chest was a mix of cuts and bruises, and he pretended that he didn’t see scars of old wounds on his back thanks to the mirror.

“What did they tell you?” Mycroft sighed when he didn’t answer.

“That you are a spy,” Sherlock admitted, “and for my own protection I will have to be put under very close surveillance, probably for the rest of my life.”

His voice shook ever-so-slightly at that confession, and he wished Mycroft wasn’t gazing at him in the way he was. He had never seen his brother look so wounded and defeated. While they were talking to the senior officers- or whoever those men in suits were- Mycroft kept his chin up but his eyes were vacant and full of shame. It didn’t take him long to realize his brother actually felt guilty for being kidnapped and tortured, and it was obvious that his employers didn’t mind him feeling that way.

“I’ve wanted to tell you so many times,” Mycroft admitted, “but I handle extremely top-secret information. I’ve always worried something like this would happen- not because I was worried about my own safety, but yours. Do you know how many of our enemies threaten my family? I care about you so much, Sherlock, more than you could ever know. I’d love nothing more than to be an admin assistant. Sometimes I doubt myself, but 9.9 times out of 10 I’m good at what I do. Damn good. And I honestly think that’s the only reason I’m not being fired right now.”

“Why would they fire you for being kidnapped?” Sherlock asked.

As he did Mycroft reached up to his face, and when he brought back his hand Sherlock realized one of his wounds was bleeding again. His brother led him to the toilet, where he sat, squirming, on the seat while Mycroft dug around the medicine cabinet for supplies.

“I completely blew a highly secretive undercover operation,” Mycroft admitted, “that’s the most I can say. Hold still.”

He grabbed Sherlock’s arm to keep him still while he dabbed some rubbing alcohol on the wound, and he hissed in pain as the cotton ball brushed against it.

“I put my brother’s life in danger, and that’s about the worst mistake you can make in my line of work,” Mycroft mumbled. He let out a sigh of exhaustion as he reached for a bandage and placed it carefully over the wound. “They want us to go to a safe house. It will really be a hotel room somewhere, but you’ll like it. It’ll be nice, with decent furniture and maybe room service, if we’re lucky.”

“I don’t want to eat.”

Mycroft chuckled and lowered his hand so that sat on top of his palm. Their hands folded together, and Sherlock didn’t protest when Mycroft leaned in for a kiss. When they broke apart their foreheads rest together, and Mycroft squeezed his eyes closed.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “What they almost did- what they _did_ do. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“Stop,” Sherlock breathed. “Please, Mye. It’s not your fault. I don’t understand any of it, but I know it’s not your fault. You were tied up, you were tortured-“

His brother winced, and Sherlock regretted his choice of words.

“That was your first time being tortured, wasn’t it?” He asked softly.

“First time?” Mycroft said with a forced smile. “God you say that like there will be more. Shit…I know there will be. It’s the risk I take doing what I do. I’ve seen other men, my colleagues, people who are even kind of my mates, come back from assignments looking just…beaten. I’ve been dreading the day it happens to me. I know that’s cowardly.”

“It’s not.” He brought a hand up against Mycroft’s face and gently brushed his thumb against his swollen cheek. Mycroft gasped and winced but didn’t swat him away. “What’s going to happen to me, now that I know? Besides the hidden cameras everywhere?”

“Well you don’t know Chinese so you weren’t actually exposed to any pivotal information,” Mycroft said. “They’ll be more concerned about the fact that you know what I do and that the people who attacked us know who you are. It will all depend on what happens next and if they’re still able to catch them.”

“Will they be able to?”

A wicked grin crossed Mycroft’s face, and as he smiled through the wounds Sherlock thought he looked beautiful.

“Fuck yeah they will,” he replied. “More than likely you will just sign a few more forms swearing that you’ll never give away anything about what happened. And trust me, the moment you even think of doing so they’ll know.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock promised, “I swear.”

Suddenly sitting was becoming a bit painful, and he closed his eyes as he frantically as he was attacked by images of the man sitting on top of him. The images came from nowhere, and all he was aware of was his sharp and loud breathing and the hand on his shoulders.

“Sherlock, deep breaths,” Mycroft’s voice cut in. “It’s alright. Deep breaths.”

Sherlock nodded and obeyed, and the images went away. He opened his eyes to gaze at Mycroft, and when he realized how physically close they were he was relieved when those feelings of horror were replaced with arousal.

That’s when he remembered his original intentions for that night, and he reached up to place a desperate kiss to Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft let out a soft moan as his tongue slipped in, and Sherlock wrapped his hands around his bruised waist before he could escape.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft rasped when they broke apart. Sherlock kissed him again, desperate to keep him close. He wanted this, he needed this: he needed the distraction. “No, this isn’t the time.”

He was embarrassed to realize he was actually pouting as he broke away from Mycroft, and his adopted brother grabbed his arms.

“I just…we just need to go, okay?” Mycroft said. “I need you to trust me. Plus…I’m _really_ sore right now.”

As his eyes roamed his brother’s beaten body, he knew he wasn’t lying. Mycroft was half leaning against the sink for support, and when they finally left the bathroom he had to resort to hobbling down the stairs. Sherlock grabbed their coats as he held onto his brother to support him, and he gasped in shock when lips dipped into the skin behind his ear and a low voice whispered:

“Later, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The next part of the series is already being written :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I'd love to know what you think!


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